


Alabama Motel Room

by scatterglory



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF!Merlin, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatterglory/pseuds/scatterglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted on kinkme_merlin for the prompt:</p><p><i>What is life, if not a joke?<br/>One night he went out for smokes<br/>And they took him apart like a ragdoll<br/>In the back of a van. </i></p><p><i>In an Alabama motel room<br/>I have one of them tied up in the bathroom<br/>I am down and out<br/>But he will not get away with it again.</i></p><p>See Notes for Warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alabama Motel Room

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:**  This is a work of fan-love; I make no profit, and claim no ownership.
> 
>  **WARNINGS:**  Homophobia/hate crime, references to graphic violence, kidnapping, bondage/restraint (see: kidnapping, not sexual), probably wildly inaccurate references to medical/gun-related things.
> 
> Song lyrics from "Alabama Motel Room" by Matthew Good Band.

_What is life, if not a joke?  
One night, he went out for smokes  
And they took him apart like a ragdoll  
In the back of a van._

 

The heart monitor beeps steadily, the respirator hisses and pops, and Merlin clenches his fist around the iPhone hidden in his pocket. Arthur moans softly, but does not wake—the doctors assure Merlin that it’s for the best, that morphine can only dull the pain so much.

Arthur’s broken hand lies limply on top of the hospital bed covers, swollen and purple underneath the cast, crushed as they’d torn off his engagement ring. Underneath the bandages, a mass of bruises span his broken nose, split lip, fractured jaw. But the worst damage is hidden beneath his bedclothes, beneath his hospital gown, beneath his skin itself. If the ambulance had been five minutes later, the internal bleeding would have killed him, or his collapsed lung would have suffocated him—Merlin’s still mostly in shock himself, and can’t remember everything that the doctors had said. 

The iPhone is a cold, heartless presence in his pocket, and he can barely keep himself from taking it out, from staring at the fuzzy picture Arthur had managed to snap before they’d dragged him into the van. The blurry figures are completely unidentifiable, due not to the quality of the phone’s camera, but rather to the long, white, hooded robes that haunt the collective memory of the South. 

Merlin shakes in his chair, but not from cold—though the hospital’s air conditioning is winning the fight against the sweltering Alabama summer, Merlin trembles with white-hot rage. Glancing at the door to make sure no helpful policeman is hovering outside, he slips the phone out and brings up the image again. It won’t help identify Arthur’s attackers in court, but Merlin counts at least four figures. Strange, it had sounded like an entire mob when he’d answered Arthur’s call … and he’d definitely recognized one hateful voice, heard for the first time in the bar they’d stopped at for lunch when they arrived in town the day before.

Arthur, in his typical fashion, had laughed off the man’s blatant antagonism—“That’s just Val, he’s hated me ever since I beat him for quarterback in high school. He’s harmless.” But Merlin had seen the way that Val’s lip curled in disgust at them even as he took their order, the way his eyes lingered too long on the matching rings around their fingers. Merlin had stared him down, one arm draped across Arthur’s shoulders protectively, and they’d left unmolested. At the time, he’d counted it a victory—it had been hard enough for Arthur to force himself to leave the safety of their Manhattan loft to return to Alabama for his father’s 60th birthday, without having old enemies resurface again.

Returning to the enormous cotton farm he’d grown up on, finally seeing Uther again after ten years, had been so stressful, in fact, that Arthur had actually gone out to buy a pack of cigarettes despite Merlin’s protests. Arthur had quit smoking after his habit had been Merlin’s reason for initially refusing to move in with him; however, despite Merlin’s generally firm anti-tobacco stance, he had actually sympathized with Arthur this time. Dinner with Uther had wreaked havoc on both of their nerves, and though Uther had stopped short of requiring them to sleep in separate rooms while under his roof, neither of them could stomach the idea of stress-relieving sex knowing that Uther was in the house.

When Merlin’s phone had startled him with Arthur’s ringtone—“Dancing Queen” by Abba, because no matter what Arthur claimed, that had  _definitely_  been what was playing when he’d spilled his drink all over Merlin at their first meeting, which led to drunken apologies, vague promises of dry cleaning, and a night of absolutely mind-blowing sex—he’d reached for the phone with a fond grin, ready to reassure Arthur  _again_  that no, he really didn’t need anything from the store. The muffled voices he’d heard on the other end of the line made him roll his eyes, assuming that Arthur had accidentally butt-dialed him. He’d been about to hang up when the voices had grown louder and clearer, and he’d heard the sound of a heavy car door slamming shut, and the world had come crashing down around his ears.

He’d beaten the ambulance to the convenience store parking lot by a good ten minutes, and thank god Arthur had mentioned that it was the only one within ten miles of Uther’s sprawling property. The emergency crew had found him there, covered in Arthur’s blood and cradling his unconscious body, framed by the skid marks left by the van that had sped off just as he’d arrived—screaming and crying and cursing the entire fucking world, and especially the paramedics who were taking their goddamn sweet time because no one gave a shit when a fag was beaten almost to death in this fucking state.

He’d apologized brokenly on the way to the hospital, riding in the back of the ambulance with them because they’d taken one look at his face and another at the ring on his finger, and motioned him in without a word. They’d even shielded him from the police until Arthur was in surgery, where he couldn’t follow. Somehow, in between fighting back tears and vomit and rage, he’d forgotten to hand over Arthur’s phone, grabbed unthinkingly after it slipped from his pocket when they’d thrown him from the van.

Now, with Arthur breathing only because of a machine, the phone is the only solid thing in the world.

When Uther arrives, he doesn’t even look at Merlin, just stares at the sight of his only son fighting for his life. Merlin wants to reach out, to let Uther know that they’re in this together, but before he can, Uther turns to him. Merlin sees his own rage reflected on Uther’s face, but beneath it ripples something darker, full of hate.

“Get. Out.”

Merlin just stares at him.

Uther’s lip curls. “Get out,” he says quietly, “Or I will have you  _thrown_  out.”

Holding Uther’s gaze, Merlin crosses the room and carefully kisses Arthur on the only part of his forehead not swathed in bandages. 

“I love you,” he whispers. Then he straightens and looks Uther directly in the eye. “Call me when he wakes up.” 

It’s not a request, and he leaves without waiting for Uther’s reply.

 

  
************************   


 

 _In an Alabama motel room  
I have one of them tied up in the bathroom  
I am down and out  
But he will not get away with it again._

 

Even in a small town like this, it’s frighteningly easy to get a gun.

He supposes all those hours spent watching “Law and Order” reruns are finally paying off—his hands were steady when he’d entered the alley, handed over the crisp bills, and received the cold .45 in return. He’d known to make sure the serial number was filed off—it was—and to make sure it was fully loaded. The silencer had been thrown in as a freebie, and he’d nodded his thanks without a word.

He’s going to do this. He’s trying not to think about it too much, which is actually surprisingly easy—it only takes the image of Arthur’s broken, bloody face swimming behind his eyelids to make his finger itch for the trigger. He knows that there will be no going back after this, but he can’t bring himself to care—it’s been hours, and Uther hasn’t called, and when he’d left the hospital, the doctors’ faces had been grave.

He walks into the motel room’s tiny bathroom and stands over Val, bound and gagged in the tub. He eyes Val with morbid curiosity—Val’s large enough, mean enough, scary enough to never worry about being physically assaulted, but it had been midnight by the time he’d left the bar, and the parking lot had been empty, and the gun had been cold in Merlin’s hand.

Val looks up at him with terrified eyes, trying futilely to speak around the tape over his mouth. Merlin stares back, face expressionless. After a moment, he bends down, leveling the gun at Val’s chest, and reaches into Val’s pocket for his phone. Merlin sets the phone down on the side of the tub, before leaning forward and ripping the tape off Val’s mouth. Val gasps in pain, and Merlin smiles sweetly at him.

“We have some calls to make,” he says as the gun fills the space between them.

  
************************   


He almost doesn’t answer when his phone rings—he doesn’t recognize the number, but it could be the hospital …

It’s not. Uther’s voice is harsh in his ears. “This is your fault.”

Leaving the bathroom, Merlin’s mouth twists in a grotesque parody of a smile. “If you’re just going to  _abuse_  me, why bother to kick me out? Wouldn’t it be more fun if I were there, a  _living, breathing_  target?”

He hears Uther’s sharp intake of breath, and he’s going to make damned sure that Uther  _understands_  this,  _understands_  that hate bubbles up from somewhere, rotten and foul, long before it turns to violence. “Go on. Tell me how this is my fault, for daring to love your son.” 

Uther clears his throat, and Merlin braces himself—

“Where are you?” The words sound like they’ve escaped without Uther’s permission.

Merlin blinks. “Don’t ask me that.”

“You should—” Uther hesitates, swallows. “You should come back.”

Merlin’s chest tightens. “Why, is he …?”

“No change.” Uther pauses again. “He—he’d want you here.”

Merlin closes his eyes, clamps down on the vertigo washing over him. “I’ll be there soon,” he lies. 

“Where are you?” Uther asks again—just like Arthur, unable to let it go unanswered.

“ _Don’t_  ask me that,” Merlin hisses. “For your own good.”

“What—?”

He hangs up on Uther, and turns off his phone. Walking back to the bathroom, he raises an eyebrow as Val’s eyes snap to him. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “This will all be over soon.”

 

  
************************   


 

 _I never sleep, I just watch TV  
And the gun, it lies next to me  
Whispering  
In an Alabama motel room  
I reflect on his sweet perfume  
I am down and out  
But they will not get away with it again._

 

It’s been less than an hour. He has the TV on, muted—a local channel, bad reception and low-budget commercials, inane sitcoms and pointless news breaks. The gun sits on the table at his elbow, and he stretches his long legs out in front of him. He’s wrestled Val onto the bed, and gagged him again after Val had made the three brief phone calls. 

None of the calls had gone to voicemail. 

He watches a character on TV make a silly face and can almost hear the laugh track. Arthur hates shows like this one, hates being told when to laugh. Merlin can almost pretend that Arthur’s there with him, complaining about the quality of programming in this backwards hellhole, muttering under his breath that he can’t believe he’s here again. 

He wonders how much longer he’ll have to wait. He resists the urge to turn his phone back on, clamping down on the thought that he should check, that there might be news of Arthur … but he’s too committed now, and he needs to be focused, ready. 

Val moans softly on the bed, which Merlin thinks is a tad dramatic. He hasn’t even laid a hand on Val, though the temptation is nearly overwhelming. He’s not a monster. He has a very specific goal, and it does not include torture.

He hears a car door slam outside, and stiffens slightly, his heart starting to pound in his chest. He grabs the gun and crouches down behind the bed, pointing the barrel at the door and using Val’s body as a shield. His breath is harsh in his ears as he hears voices approaching, and his 20-count clip is full, and the doorknob turns. 

 

  
************************   


 

 _Say you love me  
We will never get the chance again._

 

Twenty bullets seems like a lot, he thinks, until you’re actually firing at someone. Or several someones. And they’re firing back. 

Somebody’s screaming in rage, and it might be him.

And then there’s a sharp burst of heat, of pain, and everything goes blurry, and the only thing he can hear is the  _click click click_  of his empty gun.

 

  
************************   


 

 _When the night comes in  
I hope I’m out of the rain  
When the night comes in  
He makes me whole again._

 

Merlin wants the beeping to stop. It makes his head hurt, makes his ears feel like they’re bleeding. He tries to say as much, but his chest burns, and he can’t speak. He wants to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they’ve been sewn shut.

He manages on the third try, and blinks blearily at the blinding whiteness of the world around him.

“You were very lucky.” The voice is distant, rough.

He turns his head slowly, carefully, and sees Uther sitting next to his bed.

His hospital bed.

He opens his mouth, tries to speak again, but nothing comes out.

Uther’s eyes dart to his mouth, and he grimaces. “Don’t. The bullet barely missed your heart. If you strain yourself …” He trails off, and looks directly at Merlin for the first time. Uther’s eyes flicker with something strange, foreign—respect?—and Merlin blinks in surprise.

Uther shifts uncomfortably in his chair, before fixing Merlin with a contemplative look. 

“It was fortunate that they allowed you to answer your phone when I called,” he says.

Merlin stares at him.

“I could tell there was something strange going on,” Uther continues. “It was pure luck that they took you in Arthur’s car rather than one of theirs, and that Arthur’s antitheft GPS tracking system subscription is up-to-date.”

Merlin swallows, not understanding—

Uther leans forward, piercing Merlin with his gaze. “While we obviously cannot question the dead, it’s apparent that they were fighting over how to deal with you, the  _witness_ ,” he says in a low voice. “Trash like that, it’s only natural that one of them would lose control and start shooting.” He sits back in his chair. “As my … friends … on the police force agree, it really is a miracle that you were only shot once, in the crossfire.”

Merlin can’t breathe. The pain in his chest fades to nearly nothing as he and Uther stare at each other in silence. Then, slowly, he nods.

Uther purses his lips—the hardness doesn’t fade from his eyes, but now it’s joined by something else, something … warm.

“As soon as you can be moved, I’ll have you transferred to his room,” he says, standing. 

Merlin watches him leave, his back stiff and straight, and it’s not long before the pain returns and the world fades away.

  
************************   


When he wakes again, it’s because the fingers intertwined with his have squeezed his hand, and his name has escaped from cracked and swollen lips, and the blue eyes watching from the bed alongside his are clear,

and beautiful,

and alive.


End file.
